


The Medieval Matter

by juxtapose



Category: Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John," Sherlock says slowly, eyes not leaving his guests, "Why have you brought me here about a couple of comic convention enthusiasts?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Medieval Matter

**Author's Note:**

> This just sort of came to me today. I've never written for 'Sherlock' so I do hope I've done this right. If not, constructive criticism is welcome! Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin or Sherlock. This was written for fun.

"I got your text," is Sherlock Holmes' voice ringing into the apartment building.

Dr. John Watson heaves a sigh (of relief or apprehension, he's not sure) and listens to the footsteps of his flatmate growing closer and closer, all while keeping eyes on the two men before him whose case might very well turn out to be Sherlock's next "project". They sit quietly, exchanging nervous looks.

Sherlock pops into the living room, nodding to John. "I was just perusing the scene Lestrade thought I might find interesting. Completely dull, might I add--"

"But did you pick up take-away?" John pipes up, "You said you'd go buy food."

Sherlock blinks. "Oh. No. Seemed to have slipped my mind." _Again_ , John adds to himself.

"Anyway." The self-named consulting detective speaks again as he starts to turn toward the two other men in the room. "Your text seemed much more intriguing than what I was engaged in at the time, so I came straight aw--" He stops in mid-speech, appraising the sight before him.

A young dark-haired man with ears a bit too large for his angular face sits with his arms crossed in front of him. He is wearing a red neckerchief, and what appears to be a jacket, shirt, and trousers of a medieval cut, ties lacing the top of the shirt sloppily. Next to him is a blonde man, older not in overall appearance--but in the eyes. He dons chain mail and clothes that resemble that of the man beside him, but a seemingly a bit better quality. Draped across his shoulders and behind him is a bright red cape. He sits hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, but the sparkle of the sword on his hip can still be seen. His eyes shift around the room uncertainly.

"John," Sherlock says slowly, eyes not leaving his guests, "Why have you brought me here about a couple of comic convention enthusiasts?"

John sighs again. "Just . . . just have a listen to what they have to say. Go on, Merlin."

At the sound of the name, Sherlock turns to John again, rolling his eyes, but John puts a finger to his lips.

The dark-haired boy, Merlin, clears his throat and begins to recant his story. "Well, a-as you can plainly see, Arthur and I--"

"As in King Arthur," John interrupts to clarify, because the second time he's hearing this is about as confusing as the first.

Arthur, the blonde, narrows his eyes. "Yes," he says, his voice unwavering, "King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot."

Sherlock chuckles lowly, and when no one else joins him, he says, "Oh. Oh, you're _serious_."

"Quite." Arthur stands abruptly, taking a few slow steps toward Sherlock, staring him straight in the eyes. John gulps audibly next to them as he watches Arthur reach for the hilt of his sword, gripping it tightly.

"Arthur," says the boy almost pleadingly, and just his voice, it seems, causes Arthur's muscles to relax a bit.

He does not move away, though, and Sherlock, with a hint of a smile on his lips, says, "Go on, then, _Merlin_."

"Right, erm." Merlin stares down at his hands. "As you can see, we are here by mistake. Someone--a woman--brought us here, against our will. And we must find her in order to get back to . . . where we belong. We've been here for a day or so, and we were told to come here, and ask for a Sir Sherlock Holmes to help find the person who can bring us back. She's the only one who can."

John watches Sherlock's expression. His gaze does not move from Arthur's for a long while. Then he folds his arms in front of him, giving the supposed Once and Future King a once-over. He tilts his head to the side, peering at Merlin the same way.

There is a very thick, excruciatingly long silence. John stuffs his hands in his pockets. Sherlock hasn't sent the duo away yet, he thinks, and he's not sure if that's good or bad.

And then suddenly, he says, "Who's the woman you're trying to find?"

Merlin sits up fully then, and Arthur, still looking a bit skeptical, watches as Sherlock begins to pace. "Her name is Morgana Pendragon."

John clears his throat in an attempt to cover up the squeak he's just emitted, thinking idly of childhood bedtime stories of chivalry and Kings and magic.

Sherlock, meanwhile, is oddly calm as he always seems to be. He's staring down at the floor, and does so for a few painstakingly long seconds, until suddenly his head pops up to face the two visitors, and John _knows_ that look. It's what he likes to simply refer to as the Analytical Look of Doom.

"They're telling the truth," says Sherlock as if he's discussing the latest fashion statement or next week's weather forecast.

John sputters, "What?" at the same time Arthur says, "By God, that's what we've been trying to tell you all this--"

"You are quite arrogant," Sherlock interrupts, and Merlin snickers a little in the background, "You carry yourself with the arrogance of a King, but then again, so do most people. What is more important to note, though, is the blade of your sword, which, for all its repeated cleaning, is still stained with the blood of enemies. It's been used. It is no plaything, no costume piece. Your chain mail is of genuine material, rusted a little near the breast which indicates battle wounds there."

"I--"

"Lastly, despite your entitled attitude, you really do feel out of your element--otherwise you wouldn't have looked so uncertain of yourself and your surroundings earlier. Your hunched position gave you away. The way you stared at the average objects a modern-day apartment would consist of, such as a digital clock or a toaster oven, was as if you'd never seen them before in your life. Which is because you haven't. Frankly, you're a bit scared although you'd never admit it to your companion." He bows his head. "Welcome to our humble flat, King Arthur."

John doesn't bother hiding the fact that he is utterly flabbergasted. He'd decided to text Sherlock about all this because he'd known there was something behind it that Sherlock might have, by chance, found remotely entertaining--but he hadn't expected this.

After another beat of silence, Merlin says quietly, "So . . . so you do believe us? It's just that you are our only chance of returning home." He sounds hopeful.

Sherlock answers with another question: "This Morgana character. How can you be sure she is near enough to be found?"

Merlin ducks his head and says simply, "Just . . . just a feeling."

Sherlock meets Merlin's eyes now, that same knowing look dancing across his face. "The infamous Merlin, hm?" He shrugs. "You were a mystery to me at first, to be honest. But the way you hesitate in practically everything you say, tells me you choose your words carefully. Like you've got something to hide."

"Hide?" Arthur scoffs. "Merlin is my manservant, he doesn't hide anything from me. And what do you mean by infamous?"

"Servant." Sherlock ignores Arthur's question and closes his eyes for a moment, before they pop open again. "I'm assuming, as the King's servant, you polish his armour, wash his clothes, do his every bidding."

Merlin nods meekly. "Y-yes."

"And yet, your hands. I noticed that not only are you wringing them quite a bit, which indicates to me that you're as jittery about all this as your King, but about a number of reasons, some that differ from his. They are also calloused. However, they're not as calloused as they _should_ be. Which implies you get a bit of assistance, getting all your chores done in the matter of time allotted to you, which I'm sure isn't much. Furthermore, gathering up the nerve to come to us, people you don't know, for this matter based on _just a feeling_ seems a bit risky, don't you think, especially in an environment unfamiliar to you? It's more than just _a feeling_. You can actually _feel_ it. Feel _her_ presence closeby. Your secret . . . " He grins a little. "Is that you are a wizard."

Merlin's abnormally pale face grows a deep scarlet, and John's eyes flash from Sherlock, to Merlin, to Arthur and back again.

"And," Sherlock finishes, "judging by the look on your face, your Majesty . . . you were not aware of this."

Arthur's eyes are wide, blue, innocent, and the tension in the room fills the air thickly. John coughs awkwardly, and that's when Sherlock turns to him.

"Well, John. I suppose I'll have to admit I was wrong."

"That's a first," John retorts, his throat dry.

"Yes." Sherlock starts pacing again. "This . . . is beyond interesting." He claps his hands once, suddenly, sharply, and everyone looks at him. "Well! This Morgana. I guess we ought to start looking for her."

John takes a deep breath, watches the inspiration and intrigue fly across Sherlock's face. He looks at Merlin and Arthur, who are too busy staring at each other in bewilderment to pay attention to much else.

"Interesting indeed," Sherlock says, folding his hands and letting his eyelids flutter closed in a trance of strings of thought. "Let's get started."


End file.
